


What the Water Gave Him

by watsonswarrior



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-30 22:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watsonswarrior/pseuds/watsonswarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a visit from Irene, John becomes more confused than ever about where he stands with Sherlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a very, very long time ago, way before the second series aired, before the pool scene was resolved, before there was even a clear cut picture of what Irene's character was going to be like. Back when there were only vague, grainy set pictures, which is what inspired this fic, that one where Irene was in Sherlock's blue robe and everyone was in a tizzy over. I wouldn't be surprised if Irene is a bit OOC, but I think I wrote her pretty accurately according to A Scandal in Belgravia, with no basis to reference at least. Hopefully it flows, enjoy!

John Watson came stumbling into the kitchen, trying to blink away the latest nightmare from behind his eyelids. Of course it was unsuccessful as per usual. However, these nightmares were different from the ones he was used to having; the gut wrenching sounds of the battlefield, the barrage of bullets whizzing past his ear, his close friends, his brothers, dying in his arms, the life draining from their panic filled eyes. No, ever since moving in with Sherlock Holmes things have changed drastically. He didn’t know if it was a good or bad thing, but it happened and there was no going back to his past life where he lived in a dingy flat, supported by a poor excuse of an army pension, alone. Where nothing of importance ever happened and he got up and wasted the day away, just another face in the crowd. That John Watson was gone and he was never coming back. When Sherlock invited him to be his flatmate those fateful months ago, he thought this guy had to be a nutter.

And he was absolutely right. But there was something intriguing about this mad man, this high functioning sociopath as he liked to call himself. John was drawn in like a moth to a bright light. Yes, there was danger attached to this dark, mysterious man, yet he was willing to take the risk. In fact, John secretly loved that sense of whether the latest case was going to be his last. He knew this wasn’t healthy, but he just couldn’t help himself. The rush it gave him, the adrenaline pumping through his veins, the fight-or-flight sensation, it’s like a drug for him. So whenever Sherlock asks John to tag along, he tries to hide his overexcitement, and fails miserably, but that’s all right because Sherlock secretly enjoys his enthusiasm, but of course doesn’t let on.

John smiles wanly as he reminisces on the last case they solved, grabbing the milk from the fridge. They, being Sherlock, of course. He vaguely remembers the latest criminal being the leader of an underground drug ring. There was lots of running, and guns, guns were involved, yet the images that seemed to have stuck in his mind the most vividly were of Sherlock. Sherlock’s knowing smirk as he reveals who the culprit is, his breath coming out in white puffs as he sprints down the frigid London alleyways, coat billowing as his long legs stride and weave their way past obstacles. How he makes that sudden stop, pulling John into a dark, dank overpass, pressing his lean frame to his, covering John’s gasping mouth with his leather encased hand.

“Can you breathe any louder John?” Sherlock whispered briskly in his ear, hot breath sliding down John’s exposed neck. Sherlock whipped his head around and when he saw the coast was clear again, he ran off into the night, chasing his latest prey. And John just stood there, dazed and spellbound. He could feel his cheeks blazing; his heart pounding. For some strange reason, he missed the feeling of Sherlock’s lithe body against him, missed the heat rolling off him, missed the feel of his heart racing underneath the overcoat and suit, missed the feel of that warm breath rolling down his neck, making the hairs stick up…

No. John stopped his thought process right there before he could go any further. He bit the inside of his cheek, shutting the fridge absentmindedly. How could he even think of Sherlock in that way? He was his mate and just his mate. He had to get his mind off this subject, yet there was still that bloody nightmare he had to deal with. Not only does Sherlock hold a starring role in his “normal” day-to-day life, it seems he has managed to invade his subconscious. And it’s not just him, but Moriarty as well. It was that terrible day at the pool. The day where John truly thought this is it; this is the last case I share with Sherlock Holmes. He put the heels of his palms to his aching eyes, trying to scrub away the remainder of that horrid dream. Yet the more he rubbed those dreary lids, the more it flashed back to him.

***

John stood there in his parka, bomb strapped to his chest while Moriarty slithered into the pool room, being menacing and standing there goading Sherlock, trying to get him riled up. The pain he was putting Sherlock through, it was written all over his face, and Moriarty knew this, so of course he had to pounce on that. It was getting too much to handle, so that’s when John intervened and soldier John took over. A flash of surprise shot across Sherlock’s face, but he squelched it as soon as Moriarty snapped his head back up. Every moment was drawn out and he could see every detail of the scene that was laid out before him. He could see the pale skin of Sherlock’s face stretched taut in anxiety, could hear the manic breathing and shouting Moriarty was emanating, could smell the sharp chlorine burn his nose, and he could see the red laser being pointed at Sherlock’s forehead. It was time for John to make a decision, and he chose to release the vile beast from his tight grip. 

When Moriarty finally sauntered off, they thought they were safe. Sherlock hurried to help John with the deadly vest, long fingers fumbling with the buckles and straps. John’s head was thrown back in pure elation that they both managed to get through that unscathed. And he knew, going by the position Sherlock was in and how John’s face was contorted from the sheer ecstasy of being released, they were in a compromised position and if anyone were to see them at that moment, people may talk. After John’s knees buckled from the crushing adrenaline rush, he told Sherlock this and he just shot John that infuriating smirk and said people do little else, which sent a shiver through John. But then time stopped. 

That evil scum’s lilting voice echoed throughout the pool room, a flurry of red lasers pointed all over them, their chests, head, every kill shot imaginable. Everything slowed down for a second time and John could see Sherlock’s long arm, gun still in hand, pointing in the direction of the bomb. John thought, yet again, he was dead and would get blown to smithereens; however he saw Sherlock shoot him the most discreet of nods and he returned it, suddenly going back to soldier mode, knowing, just this one time, exactly what Sherlock was thinking. He continued to extend his arm before pulling the trigger. But, of course, since this was John’s nightmare, the end result was warped.

 

In this version, instead of both of them diving into the pool, safely escaping the shockwave from the bomb, Sherlock was a bit slow on the upstart. It was half a second, less probably, but it was enough. He still tumbled into the pool, evading some of the shock, but it just wasn’t enough. When John finally surfaced, he was gasping and spluttering, treading water furiously. He cackled at their luck and called out for Sherlock. He called out once, twice, yet no response. Everything about this situation was wrong and he can feel the hysteria start to bubble up into his throat, but he forced himself to keep calm. He put his head back underneath the water, opening his eyes, not even noticing the burning flame caused by the chemicals. Everything was blurred but John could still see the pale ghost like figure floating to the bottom. Like a corpse…He swam faster and harder than he ever swam before in his life. He reached Sherlock and took hold of him under his arms. His lungs and limbs screamed from the effort, but there was no way he was about to lose another one. Never again. 

Both broke the surface, John panting and Sherlock just floating limply in his arms. John pumped his legs and heaved Sherlock on the floor of the pool room. He scrambled out of the water; each second lost was a second of his life slipping away. The whole entire room was in shambles besides the spot where John dragged him from the water; however, John didn’t pay any attention to that because Sherlock was dying. He hated to admit that to himself, but he saw through the jaded eyes of an army doctor that Sherlock was not going to make it through this. That wasn’t going to stop him from trying his damndest to revive him. 

He pumped Sherlock’s chest in the count of four, trying to drive out the offending water. This wasn’t working. He pinched his nostrils and lowered his lips to his mouth, taking no pleasure in sending shoots of oxygen into his cold body. He kept with it for several minutes, and just when he was about to give up, Sherlock heaved up water, which was also mixed with blood and when John saw that his heart nearly shuttered to a halt. Internal bleeding, must be from the shockwave, John thought, doctor instincts kicking in. He coughed again, dispelling more water and blood, so much he nearly choked on it. John quickly came to his senses and moved him onto his side. There was a grumbling sound coming from Sherlock. He tried to open his mouth, but only spit up more blood. Just blood this time, no water. John tried to come to turns with losing his best mate, but he couldn’t. Tears welled in his eyes, obscuring Sherlock’s pale, withered body. He had the look of a waxy cadaver.

“J-John…” Sherlock muttered, eyes unfocused.

“Don’t try to talk Sherlock. You’ll get through this, don’t worry. We’ve been through worse, right? Lestrade’s on his way right now with ambulances and you’ll tough this one out like you always do.” John rambled with a watery smile. Sherlock shot him a slight half smile, but even that looked like it caused him great pain.

“John…”

“Sherlock, what did I just say! God, that’s the problem with you, never listen to a word I tell you.” John couldn’t hide his shaking voice.

“John.” He said with authority, ice blue eyes silencing him. He tried laughing, but it only came out as a splutter with even more blood. Sherlock blindly searched for John’s olive green flannel shirt that was now soaked through, rivulets of water dripping into puddles on the tiled floor. Sherlock finally found a purchase on the wet shirt and pulled him down so that there were merely inches between them. He took in a deep, wavering breath and said,

“Oh, John. You really are a horrendous liar. I can always see through those loosely woven fabrications.” He smiled briefly, only to be cut off by coughing up more blood, now accompanied with spittle. John cradled his head in his hands, fingers brushing away the dripping, black curls from his forehead. How long has it been since that death laser was aimed right at that spot? Must have been a century ago.

“I’ve got you, Sherlock, just relax. I’m here. I’ll always be here.” John’s body was being ripped apart from his sobbing and he could barely see out of his eyes now that the tears were flowing freely. He gave up trying to keep a cool composure as soon as the spittle came, marking him as a dead man.

“Good, because I’d be lost without my blogger,” he muttered with a tight lipped smile. He was slipping now. Sherlock was at the precipice of life and death and John was powerless.

“It wasn’t supposed to end this way,” John wept, tears staining Sherlock’s near translucent face. Sherlock opened his mouth, only to unleash another round of heaving, bellowing coughs with even more blood, the most he’s coughed up yet. John waited while he took several shaky, shallow breaths.

“You know, John, I’ve never told you this before, but I suspected I would have been dead a long time ago, so this is good. It’s good…” Sherlock trailed off.

“How is any of this good?! Tell me, Sherlock, because from what I can see, everything good that’s ever happened to me is going to shit, so tell me.” John hissed through his teeth. More coughs. More shallow breaths. And then, for a few seconds, the breathing stops.

“Sherlock, no! Stay with me! Breathe!” John sobbed into Sherlock’s inky black curls.

“Breathing? Breathing’s boring,” Sherlock rasped, letting out a brief chuckle that only resulted in more blood. He was a mess. There was crimson red, viscous blood and white frothy spittle smeared on his face, contrasting harshly with his pallid, waxen skin. His hair was sticking up in odd places. His suit was ruined, there was no doubt about it, but that was the least of John’s worries. Another friend, dying in his arms, except this time was different. He couldn’t explain it, but Sherlock felt much more than an ordinary mate. 

They were never involved romantically, but now that this extraordinary, beautiful, man was dying right before his eyes, he couldn’t help but feel that he missed out on true happiness with Sherlock. John’s sobs intensified to such a degree where it came to a point where he had difficulty breathing. This sudden, overwhelming realization made John reach over to Sherlock’s face, his sleeve covering his hand, and wiped off the mess on his face the best he could. His breath was getting more drawn and haggard by the second. He needed to move quickly, before it was all over. Now that John tidied him up, it only looked like he was going to sleep. He took his head in his hands, memorizing the impossible beauty this man possessed, the sharp edge of his cheekbones, his pert nose, the smooth, alabaster skin, those plush lips, now drained of color. He tried not to concentrate on that.

“Sherlock,” John said in a soft but alert tone, steadying his voice as best he could. His eyes fluttered open marginally. John lowered his head slowly until he was centimeters from Sherlock’s lips.

“Goodnight, my sweet prince,” he whispers, his breath mingling with Sherlock’s stilted gasps. Just before John presses his lips to this hopeless man, everything goes black and he’s suddenly back in the flat, wheezing, and drenched in sweat, with Sherlock’s name on the tip of his tongue.


	2. The Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A perplexed John finds Irene in the flat and the two exchange a few...revealing words with each other

John went to the cupboard and took out a glass to pour his milk into. He wanted to put that nightmare behind him, but he just couldn’t. Everything had been so…vivid. He could remember every detail, even now, sitting in the dimmed florescent light of the kitchen with milk in one hand and the glass in another. He yawned as he slowly poured the milk, watching it fill to the top. 

It had been months since the pool incident, yet still John was plagued with these terrible dreams, these “what ifs”. He could not begin to conceive a life that did not involve Sherlock, not since they concluded that first case together, A Study in Pink. They had become the ultimate tag team, and not just professionally. Sherlock had grown to be his best mate. Sure, he still had many social graces to learn, but that was what John was there for. And John figured he was Sherlock’s first ever legitimate friend. However, that’s all they were. They were very close, yes, but not that close. So John wondered why his dream would take such an unrealistic turn at the end. 

He cared for Sherlock, but in the most platonic of ways. Besides, John had Sarah, and Sherlock…Sherlock was married to his work. As far as John was concerned, he had no sex drive whatsoever. John thought about going for a walk, knowing the cool air would be good for his head. But when he glanced at the clock on the stove he knew it was much too late, or early that is, to go outside and walk about. So he figured he might as well sit down and go read a book. He picked up his milk from the counter and looked up to find a willowy figure standing in the shadows, arms crossed, waiting for him presumably. He knew who it was before the name slipped through clenched teeth,

“Irene.”

“Oh John, such a solemn attitude, as always. I mean, really, you must learn to loosen up. Where’s my warm welcome?” She sauntered over to him so her twisted smile was illuminated in the muted glow. Irene looked quite similar to Sherlock in some ways, what with the dark, wild curls, the sharp, angular facial structure, the porcelain skin, the pale, cunning eyes, but she was so much different opposed to Sherlock. Sherlock was a brilliant in many areas, but was very uneducated in other simple, menial tasks, whereas Irene was naturally clever and would bend nearly anyone to her will.

“What the hell are you doing here?” John asked coldly, jaw clenching and unclenching.

“Not even a proper greeting? My, my, Dr. Watson, where have your manners gone?” John just stood there, milk in hand, glaring at her, waiting to hear an explanation.

“You know, it’s quite cold in here,” she went on, ignoring John’s hard stare. “May want to invest in a personal heater,” she said jauntily, prowling over to where he was standing, and that’s when John saw it. Sherlock’s silken navy blue bathrobe. She tightened the silk ribbon around her tiny waist, rubbing her forearms in mock coldness. John furrowed his eyebrows, placed the glass numbly on the counter, and crossed his arms across his chest.

“Confused, are we? Well, so was I, to be completely honest. When I got that text from Sherlock to come over, I was, to say the least, surprised. I didn’t hesitate for too long, however. Once you’re beckoned by Mister Holmes, one just doesn’t ignore him; surely you of all people must know that.” Irene smiled slyly, cocking her head up to him. John stood there; feet planted firmly on the worn wood floor, letting her go on. “But, you see, Sherlock is quite…warm. The time I spent with him, I didn’t even notice the chill. I was much too wrapped up in other strenuous circumstances…” She murmured suggestively, leaning into the counter, the lights overhead shining on her jet black hair, creating a halo around her disarrayed curls. John had had enough of her.

“How’s Norton, Irene? You know, you’re soon to be husband,” John growled intensely, hands curling into white knuckled fists.

“Easy there, John, don’t want you to pop a blood vessel,” she said, taking a step back, her hands held in a defensive manner, again deflecting his question. Irene stopped in her tracks and looked like a lightbulb had gone off in her head, then let out a sardonic, knowing snigger. “Of course,” she huffed. She snapped her head to John and glided over to him with the grace of a jungle cat. She disregarded personal space entirely, their noses were practically touching.

“You, Doctor John Watson, are in love with Mister Sherlock Holmes,” she said with smug certainty. Her quicksilver eyes were piercing daggers into John. He felt anxious, having Irene standing that close. He could feel his palms start to perspire, his heart rate elevating. It was certainly not because of what she had just told him, since that was nothing but a false accusation.

“Sorry to inform you, Irene, but that’s not at all the case,” he tried to look into her eyes, but they were too cold, so he focused on the swoop of her nose.

“Then kiss me,” she breathed, her lips moving towards his mouth, eyes fluttering softly. John grabbed hold of her shoulders and gently, but firmly, pushed her away. She smiled slightly, eyes gleaming with triumph.

“So then I was right,” she teased arrogantly.

“No, no, that’s not it at all. I’m not just going to go around cheating on my girlfriend, especially not with a manipulating, conniving snake like you.”

“A bit quick to jump on me, eh John? I mean, you know what they say. It takes two to tango…” He kept on going, pretending he didn’t hear what she just said.

“And do me a favor; stop making blind assumptions about my life, because you don’t know me at all,” he grumbled. Irene snickered bitterly.

“On the contrary, I think I may know you even better than you know yourself.” John could already feel the anger welling up inside him, melting away all drowsiness from his body.

“You know absolutely nothing about me,” John hissed.

“All right John, I’m not going to sugar coat or beat around the bush about this. You need to stop lying to yourself. I see all the lingering gazes, the shining eyes, the blushing cheeks whenever he gets close to you. And I’d bet you fifty quid that if you were to cross a random person on the street, they’d think you two were together.”

“I think you’re out of order.”

“And I think you’re being overtly defensive.”

“Get out,” John snarled.

“But then what will Sherlock think? Me dashing out unexpectedly like that,” Irene giggled like she was in on something John didn’t know about, but he brushed it off. She circled around him, shaking out her tousled hair, and hopped up onto the counter elegantly. She swung her long, exposed legs off the edge. “I should probably get back in there soon, lest he wake up with the side of his bed cold, thinking I’ve done a runner. You know, Sherlock is quite a fast learner, and once he gets going, it’s very hard for him to stop. He’s just so inquisitive, but who could blame him. The start was a little shaky, but he was new to the whole situation, and then things got heated,” she said in a low, sultry voice. John was now seeing spots in his vision, his body shaking.

“Listen, save me the fucking details because I don’t give a shit about what you and Sherlock get up to in the bedroom.”

“Do I spy a hint of jealousy in that voice?” Irene asked playfully, like she enjoyed watching him squirm.

"How many times do I have to repeat myself?” he asked himself, hands running the length of his weary, drawn face. He looked up, a sudden wave of lethargy washing over him. He steadied his droopy eyes on this infuriating woman who keeps trying to push her untrue claims at him and takes a deep breath. “I. Am. Not. In. Love. With. Sherlock,” John said in a brusque manner, annunciating each word.

“So you keep trying to convince yourself,” Irene said patronizingly.

“Get off your high horse, Irene; you are in no position to dish out life lessons. Why are you even doing this? Why keep on persisting?”

“Let’s just say I want to liberate you”

“I don’t need liberating,” John said quickly.

“Do you know how repressed you sound right now?” Irene snapped back. John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, choosing not to indulge her with an answer. She gave him a once over, taking in his short, stocky frame. John felt oddly exposed, defenseless even. Her eyes wandered lazily back to his face. Her cat-like eyes squinted slightly, as if she were assessing something. She leaped down from her spot on the counter, exuding a cold grace while doing so. For the first time, Irene stripped her haughty, conceited plating and looked almost…perplexed.

“You’re just so hard to read John. I figured you’d be just like everyone else, easy to mold and hold under my thumb. But if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s where your true affections lie. You may deny it all you want, but eventually you’re going to have to come to terms with it. And I know you’re with Sarah and that you love her, but, John, are you in love with her or the idea of her? Oh John, it’s time to start asking yourself the difficult questions.” He stood there, wide eyed and gaping, but then shook out of it and came to his senses.

“I am in lo-“ Irene cut him off with a steely look and a silencing hand.

“I’ve had enough of this bickering with you, thanks. Well, I think I’m going to make my dash now,” she said, running a hand through her voluminous hair.

“I thought you said you didn’t want to do a runner,” John retorted.

“Yeah, about that. I lied,” Irene shrugged, as if it were nothing at all. He blinked blearily as he watched her slink back into Sherlock’s room, barely even making the floorboards creak. John stood there, dazed with a mixture of fatigue and confusion. What…what had just happened? He thought. He had no idea how long he stood there, staring into the blurred middle distance. He blinked several times and took his glass of milk over to the sink, no longer having any desire to drink it. His limbs felt stiff, going through the motions mechanically. He heard the slight click of Sherlock’s door being quietly shut. Irene strode over to the front door, heels clacking on the wooden floor. The silk blue nightgown had been replaced by a deep burgundy overcoat.

“Goodbye John,” she said as she slipped her hands into leather gloves. She fanned out her hair, having the curls tumble onto the outside surface of her coat. She swayed over to the front door, just about to let herself out. She hesitated, hand placed lightly on the doorknob. She turned her head around so her eyes were level with John’s. “One more thing,” she took a pause, letting John become saturated in suspense. He waited until she finally spoke,

“Don’t forget what I told you tonight. I meant every word of it,” Irene told him seriously. And with that, she turned the knob and left the flat, leaving John more confused than ever.


	3. The Morning After

John woke up in his bed, disorientated, head pounding from the lack of sleep he got that night. He had a relatively dreamless slumber, no nightmares; except he vaguely remembers seeing flashes of Sherlock’s angular face floating through the darkness. He shied away from the sunlight, burrowing his face into the pillow. He stretched out his arm to where his nightstand and felt around for his cellphone. When he finally had it in his hand, John rolled back into the sun, squinting to read out the numbers. It was 8:00 AM. 

Great, he thought, a whopping four hours of sleep. Might as well get out of bed. John rolled, none to gracefully, out of bed and walked over to the kitchen for his morning cup of tea. When he entered, he saw Sherlock there at the table, sitting erect with a crisp suit on, reading the newspaper. He could see a plate with scones and jam, waiting to be eaten. John stumbles in, feeling slightly out of place in his ratty t-shirt and sweats when Sherlock is in a proper suit. He could care less though, since his primary focus in that moment was to make his tea. While the water was boiling, Sherlock gave the newspaper a flourish and set it down on the table, taking a sip of his black coffee.

“Morning, John,” he said conversationally, his deep baritone voice taking on a light tone. John froze at the sound, everything from the nightmare, to Irene, to their bizarre conversation, bombarded him with overwhelming force. He could feel his cheeks flush and turned around, trying to concentrate on anything else.

“Good Morning, Sherlock,” he mumbled, his voice constricted.

“Still half asleep, are we?” Sherlock taunted.

“Yeah, must be,” he replied. Except he really wasn’t. He was wide awake now and could no longer hide behind that veil of drowsiness. Good thing the water was done boiling; he needed to busy himself somehow. He grabbed a mug along with a teabag, filled the steaming water high enough so he could still add milk, and let the tea steeple. The routine of making tea calmed John down considerably, enough to take a seat at the table and have a mild conversation with Sherlock. He laced his fingers together and placed them under his chin, watching as Sherlock scanned the paper, slowly sipping his bitter coffee. He saw the sweep of his eyelashes when he blinked, the shadows defining those sharp cheekbones, his tongue flick out to catch a drop of his hot drink from the corner of his mouth…

“Yes, John?” Sherlock asked with a smirk, eyes still focused on the paper. He was shaken from his temporary daze, feeling embarrassed on having his eyes trained on Sherlock. Did he often do this? He couldn’t help but wonder…Sherlock looked up, eyebrows raised questioningly.

“What? Oh, nothing, I was just, umm,” John stammered, not able to explain his little trance. However, Sherlock didn’t give him a rough time about it, which he silently thanked him for. Sherlock just shot him a half smile, telling him that his tea was ready. John walked over to the fridge and took out the milk carton, feeling a dizzying sense of déjà vu. Quickly discarding the useless teabag, he poured it into his mug, watching as the milk and tea mixed to become one solid color. He brought the mug over to his seat, reveling in it comforting heat. The hot liquid nearly burned his tongue, but he welcomed it. As he took more sips, he felt his nerves slip away. Now it was just him and Sherlock, in the kitchen, sitting at the dining room table like every other morning. John licked his bottom lip, relishing in the warmth that was radiating throughout his body. He was eyeing the scones across the table like a vulture. Sherlock flicked his eyes up, seeing John nearly salivating at the opposite end. He slid the plate over to him.

“Go ahead, knock yourself out. It’s not like I was actually going to eat them anyway,” he said in a clipped voice. John sighed. Typical Sherlock.

“You do know that you have to eat to stay alive, don’t you?” John dubiously said.

“Of course John, but digestion slows me down. I thought we already went over this,” Sherlock shot him an irritated look, sounding like a petulant child.

“Fine, fine, I’ll eat the bloody scones. But only if you insist,” John said, already reaching out to take one. They sat in contented silence, Sherlock reading his paper, John eating his scones and drinking his tea. But then there came a time where John needed to ask about the previous night. So he wiped the crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hands and cleared his throat.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmmm?” He hummed in response, taking another sip of his coffee.

“Did you get off with Irene last night?”

“What would make you think that?” He asked, cocking his head slightly. John scoffed. Certainly he can’t be serious, he thought.

“Well, let’s see. It was roughly 4:00 when I woke up to get a glass of milk when, out of nowhere, she steps out of the shadows in your blue bathrobe. Then she proceeded to tell me that you texted her to come over. You know what that’s general public calls that Sherlock? That would be a ‘booty call’”.

“But I didn’t call. I texted her,” Sherlock answered, eyebrows furrowed.

“Doesn’t matter Sherlock. You wanted a woman to come over to the flat at an ungodly hour. That basically screams that you’re, well, you know…” John trailed off awkwardly, hoping Sherlock would make the connection. It took a second, but he eventually came to the conclusion he was getting to.

“Well, John, I was curious,” he responded in an obvious tone.

“At 4:00 in the morning?”

“I don’t see how time is conclusive in this equation,” replied Sherlock, eyebrows still furrowed.

“Sherlock, even you have to see that texting someone out of the blue just for that isn’t right,” John tried to reason with him.

“I can’t see the problem here. She could have easily not replied, but she did. It was an experiment. For science.”

“So that justifies sleeping with someone who’s already spoken for?” John was starting to get riled up, aggravated that Sherlock wasn’t getting that this was a wrong thing to do.

“I’d like to point out that she came on her own accord, nobody forced her. She could have declined my offer, but she didn’t. Besides, if you must know, I did not have sex with her. I couldn’t go through with it. Not due to the so called ‘morality’ of the situation, I just wasn’t sexually attracted to her. And thus my experiment ended.”

“But, she was wearing your bathrobe.”

“She was cold, I let her borrow it.”

“But she told me…she started to give…erm…details,” John said uncomfortably.

“Silly, naïve John, believing everything everybody tells you. In this line of work that will do you no good.”

“Sherlock, I actually have a job. A real one. A job I didn’t happen to make up. I’m a doctor, remember?”

“Ugh, dull,” he mutters in disdain.

“Yeah, well, someone has to pay these bloody bills,” he said around a mouthful of scone.

“This is all beside the point. What I’m trying to tell you is that Irene lied to you. Whatever ‘details’ she told you were untrue. She was probably looking for some cheap amusement, since she didn’t get any from me. Just out of curiosity, what exactly did she say?” Sherlock leaned forward in order to get a better view of John. John had Sherlock’s complete, undivided attention which scared the crap out of him, those inhuman eyes, constantly changing their color. This time, as the early morning light streamed through the curtains, they were as clear as glass tinted with the lightest of blues. 

He unwittingly licked his lips, and then wished he hadn’t. He started to sweat under Sherlock’s cool, measured gaze. And then he snaps back to the question that had just been presented to him. How could he possibly tell him everything that Irene said? He’d have to leave out the bit about his “repressed feelings” for Sherlock. He could feel himself blush at the thought, but hopefully Sherlock would take it as a natural reaction to his intense scrutiny.

“Well, it’s all a bit fuzzy since it was, you know, four in the morning, but she told me things were getting heated between you two and that once you got going, it was hard to get you to stop, and something about you being inquisitive or whatever.” John shifts in his seat, wanting Sherlock to take his eyes off him, and yet there was a small part of him that never wanted those eyes to break their heated glare…

“And that was it? Nothing else?” John could tell from his facial expression and the unsure tone that he didn’t believe him, that there was something John was holding back.

“Yes. And then she just took off,” he tried to look into Sherlock’s eyes in order to sell that what he was telling is the whole story, but he can’t help feel a twinge of guilt. He hated not being truthful with Sherlock, but this was something he would have to keep to himself.

“Sherlock, can I ask you something?” John questioned, breaking the short silence.

“You just did John,” he said, smiling at his own wittiness.

“I’m serious, Sherlock.” John’s face was hardened and Sherlock could see the ravages of war in his face. He sighed, leaning back into his chair, a pale slender hand scratching his head, scattering clumps of obsidian waves in the process. He motioned with his other hand to continue.

“Are you attracted to anyone? I mean, in a sexual manner?” John asked, genuinely curious.

“Is your mind slipping, John? I told you I’m mar-“

“Married to your work, yeah I remember you telling me that, and you know what? I call bollocks on that.”

“So would this be your way of telling me that you’d be disappointed if I weren’t at all interested in sex?” Sherlock inclined his head to John, clear eyes shining.

“What? No, no, absolutely not. Without a doubt no.” John denied vehemently. Sherlock continued to stare at him, unconvinced. “What? I genuinely want to know. The truth this time, no vague answers,” he said.

“Well, John, I believe there are more valuable subjects for me to focus on, other than silly, primal urges. I’m not saying I don’t get aroused, or lack a sex drive; it’s simply the fact that I don’t dwell, let alone act, on said urges. Does that answer your question, John, or was it still too vague for your liking?” Sherlock asked, eyebrow slightly raised.

“Wait so, hold on. What exactly is your sexual orientation?” asked John. Sherlock considered this, taking a long swig of coffee.

“I'm not one for labels, John. My severe lack of arousal from women would suggest homosexuality. Then again, I don’t feel particularly aroused by many men either. They all sort of blend together as one big pile of moronic imbeciles. So, John, when I say I’m married to my work, I truly mean it. Until the day comes when I find someone who can keep up with me, that is,” he shot John a significant look, staring right at him, with a certain sense of…vulnerability. As quickly as it came, the moment was severed, Sherlock’s eyes breaking their fixed gaze, going back to his newspaper. John grazed his bottom lip with his teeth, feeling his cheeks and the tips of his ears blaze with heat. He swallowed thickly, the scones weighing heavily in his stomach.

“Which is why I’m going to be placing my full attention on the cases and deductions at hand”, Sherlock said, his head tilted down, lazily flipping the thin page. “Speaking of which,” he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone, thumbing through his texts, moving his slender fingers with lightning speed. In a matter of seconds, he slips the phone back while rising from his seat. Sherlock smoothed out any kinks from his sleek black suit jacket and checks his expensive watch with a flip of his wrist. How he manages to afford all of these extravagant items, John had no clue.

“Lestrade wants us to meet him at the docks. You may want to get dressed.” He pivoted, striding down the hall. John was left alone at the kitchen table, finishing off his tea. And, of course, Sherlock left before putting his mug in the sink. He got up slowly, chair scratching on the floor. He lifted Sherlock’s mug from the handle, dumped out the dregs, and placed the mugs into the pewter sink. When John passed Sherlock’s door on his way back to his room, he felt his stomach clench, remembering the way he had looked at him minutes before. He could hear Irene’s voice in the back of his head,

‘You, Doctor John Watson, are in love with Mister Sherlock Holmes’. It was a daft, preposterous statement that should hold no meaning, yet…He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. He went into his room to get dressed, recalling Irene’s lecture as he tugged on a pair of jeans. But he was as straight as an arrow, how could he be attracted to Sherlock? He had no feelings for any men before Sherlock waltzed into his life. Well, he wouldn’t necessarily describe it as “waltzing” but more like barreling in like a steamroller. 

He picked out a warm jumper, pulled it over his head, and smoothed out any rumples. He grabbed his wallet and phone from his dresser and hurried to the bathroom, not wanting to keep Lestrade, or Sherlock for that matter, waiting too long. He looked at the state of his hair, the disheveled sandy brown flecked with grey. John put a little more product in it than usual, trying to tame it, and was reminded that he was in desperate need of a haircut. Instead of leaving immediately, he hesitated, looking at his reflection in the mirror. He could see the defined, drooping bags under his tired, dark blue eyes. The unflattering luminescence outlined his pock scars and the still present battle wounds that were scattered on his fading tanned skin. 

The war was obvious on his face, lines and wrinkles stretched on his weary face. His mouth seemed to be set into a perpetual frown, the edges going down against his will. Even if he did have strong feelings for Sherlock, it’s not like he would ever go for a guy such as himself, someone who’s lived through hell, who has had so much ripped away from him. There was just too much inner turmoil in John for Sherlock to take interest in. And it wasn’t like he was much of a looker from the start. John was suddenly fed up with everything. He wanted a normal life with a normal job, maybe even start a family and live in a mundane suburb with a white picket fence and a little garden in the side yard. Have several kids with his beautiful wife, hell maybe even get a dog. This was all unattainable, since he chose this life. However, he didn’t know how much it would consume him. 

It was even starting to become difficult to maintain his relationship with Sarah, if he can even call it that anymore. Things haven’t really been going well between them, but of course he didn’t tell Irene that last night, since she would just keep at him. John had never been this confused in his life. It made his head throb and he could feel a dull sting behind his eyes. He looked back up at the mirror, staring his twin image right in the eye. The words ‘I’m in love with Sherlock Holmes’ slipped from his lips against his will, it seemed. His hand flew to his mouth and he turned his head quickly to the door, paranoid over whether he might have heard it. John didn’t hear footsteps or any other telltale sign that he was even around to hear it. He noticed that after saying the phrase out loud, he felt lighter, the pain in his head dulled considerably. He cleared his throat and ran a shaky hand through his overgrown hair, taking one last look at himself before he left, tuning off the light.

“C’mon Sherlock, let’s go,” he exclaimed in the direction of Sherlock’s room. John didn’t hear a response so he made his way to the front door and, lo and behold, he was standing right by his side, a little too close for comfort.

“How long does it take you to get ready, John? I've been waiting for ages. Never mind that, we best be off. I think we’re going to have a really interesting case in our hands,” he tittered with excitement, a devilish glint in his ice blue eyes. John was too busy staring at Sherlock’s mouth to even register what he just said. He licked his lips, only seeing Sherlock. Only wanting Sherlock. His breath came out in shallow spurts, his heart racing. Sherlock broke the moment by turning on his heels and stride to the door, simultaneously grabbing his scarf, along with his navy blue overcoat. John stood there, feeling oddly dejected and almost ashamed. He really thought something was about to happen, and he would have allowed it, welcomed it even, but Sherlock abruptly turned away and that was that.

“Coming John?” Sherlock inquired, pulling his long arms through the coat. He blinked out of another daze Sherlock left him in nodded and sighed deeply, quickly grabbing his black jacket. As they left 221b Baker Street, John kept replaying Irene’s words of certainty over and over in his head,

‘You, Doctor John Watson, are in love with Mister Sherlock Holmes.’


End file.
